Chapter V: The Clergyman's Daughter

AT the door of a large mansion, with wings spread widely on either side, two ladies are standing, engaged in watching the progress of a young miss, who, under the care of an elderly gentleman, is taking her first lesson in riding. They both laughed as she stopped in front of the door, her face pallid with fear.

"You're a little goosey," said the older lady, patting kindly the small hand clinging to the pummel. "What are you afraid of?"

"It seems so high. Oh, Mr. Duxbury, can't I get off now?"

"Get off! No, indeed, Susan." He then turned to the younger lady at the door, and said earnestly, "You promised to sing that anthem for me last night. What excuse have you for forgetting it?"

"Only this, sir," was the merry response—"that I went to the music-room and fulfilled my pledge, but you were not there to hear it."

"Ah! I am sorry; but I must attend to Susy, now."

He turned back once or twice, listening to her laugh, which sounded like chiming bells. "I envy her father," he said to himself. "She's a perfect treasure in any home."

While Mr. Duxbury is patiently following the young equestrian up and down the maple avenue, I will endeavor to make a pen-picture of the young lady at the door.

Not more than the usual height, her erect figure, and her head carried so daintily back from her chest, give one the impression that she is tall. Her hair is the deepest shade of auburn, glistening and glowing as the sun touches it, like a live thing. It is very abundant, wound at the back into a large, loose coil, than which nothing could be more beautiful. In front there is just enough wave to be a suitable framing to the pure, broad brow, the ends carried back and coiled around the rest. Her eyes are dark hazel, the expression constantly changing. Now they are alive with fun. When she is singing, they grow dark and deep and full of soul, almost sad; anon they flash or melt as her mood varies. Her mouth is not very small; her lips ripe, red, and tremulous with feeling. Just a kissable mouth, often repeated her friends, when trying to describe her.

Can you guess who this young lady is? No other than our Emily Washburn; and this noble mansion is the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury, who have a score of young ladies in their charge, with three resident teachers, of whom none is more loved and petted than our Emily, who had been in their family for two years.

Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury are held in great respect by their fellow citizens, visiting and receiving visits from the most refined people in the town. Indeed, their monthly levees are better attended than almost any parties in the place.

Ella Sampson, Emily's friend and room-mate, has gone home for a short recess, her place as German and French teacher being filled by Miss Washburn.

Mrs. Duxbury and Emily were still sitting on the doorsteps, when a party of four, two ladies and two gentlemen rode gaily up the avenue.

"Good evening," exclaimed Miss Lawrence, who was rather in advance of the others. "Isn't it lovely out? We are going down the river road, and came for Miss Washburn to accompany us."

"Thank you," answered Mrs. Duxbury, fearing that Emily would refuse. "It will do her good."

"If you mean to benefit my health, I am perfectly well now," added the young girl merrily. "I should dearly love to," with a glance toward Mr. Duxbury, "but I have neither horse, habit, nor hat."

"All of which shall be forthcoming in ten minutes, if you say the word," answered the gentleman, warmly.

"Come with me," said Mrs. Duxbury, in a gay tone. "You shall be Cinderella, and I'll be the fairy grandmother."

The old gentleman rang a bell connected with the stable, which stood at some distance from the house, and ordered the servant who appeared, to bring round Chestnut, with a lady's saddle.

"I am very glad you called for her," he said, addressing one of the gentlemen. "She will prove an addition to any party."

"I am very sure of it, at least as sure as I can be from one glimpse of the lady. I have never had an introduction. My cousin, Miss Lawrence, made the proposition to come for her."

Cecilia Lawrence was a native of old Virginia, but her parents removed to Michigan when she was a child, leaving her with an aunt at the North, to complete her education. Since leaving school, she had twice crossed the ocean and travelled abroad, once in company with her parents, only spending a summer in Great Britain, and a winter in Rome. The second time, she went with her only brother, several years older than herself, who had just graduated from a law school in New England. This time, she passed three years most delightfully in visiting places of sacred interest in the Holy Land, and of classic and historic fame in many parts of Europe.

On their return, Frederic Lawrence acceded to the wishes of his parents and settled in the West, where his talents speedily attracted attention, and in his thirty-third year, he was sent from his adopted state as a Representative to Congress. He had been a member of the House in Washington one year, his sister having passed the winter with him, when she made her appearance in our story. She was now passing several weeks with the family of Judge Wilson, the gentleman being also a Virginian, and a cousin two or three degrees removed.

At a party given by her friends for their accomplished visitor, Emily was present, and contributed greatly to the pleasure of the company by her fine singing, and also by the charming grace and ease of her manners. Miss Lawrence, though several years the senior, conceived an attachment, as warm as it was sudden, for the beautiful Emily. She resolved to see as much as possible of the young girl during her stay in U—.

"What a sensation she would create in Washington!" she said to Mrs. Wilson, after they had discussed the party, and individual members of it. "She makes me proud of my countrywomen. I have seen no one, either side of the water, who impressed me as so altogether charming."

This opinion Miss Lawrence endorsed, with great emphasis, the morning after the ride. And this time, she was joined enthusiastically by George Wilson, her so-called cousin, who returned from College one day too late for the party.

"It is a perfect delight to watch one so fresh, unassuming and wholly unconscious of her own charms," urged Cecilia, dwelling continually on the subject. "Still I almost shrink from pursuing the acquaintance, for fear I shall discover the blemish which stains the character of us all in this wicked world. So far I have failed to discover any."

"You make a staunch friend, Cecilia," remarked Judge Wilson, smiling over his newspaper. "If it will please you, I will tell one remarkable trait I noticed in the young girl the evening she was here."

"Hear! Hear!" cried George, clapping his hands. "Father is a capital critic of ladies," he murmured in an aside to his cousin. "He knows a beautiful face, too, as well as the next one." This was said in a louder tone.

"Aye! aye! my son. But I do not call beautiful all those who catch your fancy. Mere regularity of features, or mere brilliancy of complexion do not, in my opinion, constitute beauty. I want to see the soul, flashing and glowing through the eye, the cheek. This beauty I confess Miss Washburn has. She reminded me of a description I once read of a young lady:—

"'Every thought and emotion that passed through her mind, reflected itself upon her countenance, as the under-current of a streamlet breaks the sunshine into ripples on the surface.'

"But the particular trait I referred to was this. She was surrounded with young and old of both sexes; and they all talked to her on rational subjects—music, painting, classical literature, and she showed an intelligent understanding of them all. I lingered in her vicinity for some time, and not once did I hear her descend to personalities. She has wit, but she does not use it to cut her friends. Every glimpse that I obtained into her soul revealed innocence and grace. I envy her father."

"Good! Good! Three cheers for Judge Wilson!" shouted the young collegian in tones so loud that his father laughingly put his fingers to his ears.

"I would give something to be by when your opinions of her character were conveyed to her," said Cecilia, earnestly.

"I'm sure," added the Judge, "she has been carefully trained by judicious parents. Her father is a clergyman, I hear."

"Yes, sir, but now advanced to a position of trust in the Missionary Society of our church. So she told me last night. She is very proud of her father, and indeed she spoke in terms of the warmest affection of all her family. It is two years since she came to U—. This is her first separation from them."

"But not the last, if I have any influence," retorted George, rising with a flushed cheek, and drawing up his tall form to its full height.

"You talk of influence! You, a Sophomore! Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed the Judge, gazing at his son with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "Why, my boy, do you suppose she will wait—let me see—three, six, nine years, for you. It will be just about that period before you can offer to supply her with bread and butter."

"I don't consider myself a subject for ridicule," said George, with a flushed face.

"Neither do I, my boy; but a very fair one for mirth, just now."

"Come, George," urged Cecilia, rising and putting her arm through his. "Let us go to the garden, before it is too warm. I want to gather a basket of flowers."